The Saga of Yan Ingree
by Centurion Tiberis
Summary: This is the story of Yan Ingree, Imperial Guardsman of the 76th Davian Infantry Regiment, a tale of peril, and triumph, of blood and victory, of the end of worlds...


AValkyrie Airborne Assault Carrier drops through a layer of clouds. Ahead and far below the Valkyrie stands the sprawling mass of the city. Smoke reaches for the heavens in black pillars. Twenty other Valkyries follow the lead craft, forty two Vulture gunships fly in pairs, flanking each of their larger cousins.

Each Valkyrie holds a dozen soldiers. Huddling in the cramped troop compartments they mechanically check and re-check their gear, a product of intense training, and nervous tension.

The wave of steel falls quickly. Below guns begin to fire. The range is too far, the shots fall short. The men are ready, as ready as they can ever be. Not one of them has been in combat. Live fire drills can only do so much for a man. The question burns in the men's minds, the same question that has hounded young men going into battle for tens of thousands of years: "What will I do?"

The Valkyries slow, and then stop, only a few feet above the ground. The escorts race ahead, fire pouring from the Vultures, bullets and missiles impacting the ground. The Vultures' targets respond, close enough to the city that the heavy weapons hidden from the Imperial Artillery can hit the speeding gunships. First one Vulture, then another suffers the impact of a direct hit, they burst into flame and fall with ground-shaking crashes.

Sunlight pours into the bellies of the Valkyries. Men stand, disorientated by the light. They stumble down the ramp, eyes adjusting to the sudden glare. The city stands a mile away, any closer and the Valkyries would be at risk. The ground slopes down to a river, then back up again on the other side. The enemy is there, waiting for the Imperials.

Officers begin to organize the men, squads falling into platoons, platoons organizing for the attack. Men stare anxiously across the water. There are no bridges, so how are they supposed to cross? The Valkyries are leaving now, engines roaring away.

A man steps to the front of the troops. The men all know his name, he is their commander. A brief order, the lieutenants wave their platoons forward. The river is only a quarter mile away. The men march forward, clutching their lasguns to their chests. Every one of them has heard the stories, great masses of soldiers wiped away in seconds, by this very foe.

The pace of the march increases. The platoons fan out, the men further away from each other. The enemy is close. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air. Only a thousand feet to the river, the men begin to wonder how they will climb the bluffs on the other side. The air is split by a deep crack. A streak of blue tears the air, leaving a buzzing hanging behind it.

The entire company halts, puzzled expressions on the faces of the men. Suddenly the air explodes. Dozens, no, hundreds of blue lights racing toward the Imperial soldiers, plasma meets flesh with a sickening sizzle. The Flak armor worn by the Imperials does little against these weapons. Men fell all around, screams split the air. More light streaks past, the air buzzing, this time the fire comes from the right, then from the left.

There is no cover, the few bushes and rocks provided no protection against the deadly crossfire. Men scrabble at the ground, trying to scoop out a hole for themselves. One by one these shallow trenches become graves. A Lieutenant stands, waves wildly at the river, shouts something, the words are lost. He takes a step, a blast of blue light hits him full into face. The man sinks to his knees, helmet gone, face a burning wreck. The men around him stare, horrified, as the charred corpse tumbles to the group, arm still outstretched.

Men fire their weapons blindly, searching for targets. A man rises up slightly, the blue light knocking a bloody hole in his side, screams of agony fill the air. The medics scramble from body to body. They only stop at a few. A man lies on his back in a shallow depression, blue fire tearing the air inches above his face. He speaks into a microphone, its lead attached to the backpack of a bloodied corpse lying next to him.

"This is Captain Ingree of the 76th Davian Infantry, we are pinned down by the river outside of the city, requesting immediate air support." memorized phrases remembered from training, condensing this slaughter to an impersonal message. A pause, Ingree waits for a reply. The microphone crackles;

"Acknowledged Captain, Vulture Gunships are en-route, hold your position." The voice calm, the man safe in some cushy building, miles from the fighting, safe from the blue fire that is ripping holes in Ingree's men. Sparks erupt from the dead man, blue fire striking the Vox caster. Ingree's hand flies to his eyes, but sparks still landed on his face, burning him. There will be no more support, not without another Vox caster.

Ingree rolls out of his little hole, casts his gaze about, momentarily transfixed by the scene of horror all around. Those men that rise, even a little are cut down by the blue fire, some by glancing hits, just enough energy to light the men on fire, the nearest water is a thousand feet away. Men twist in the grass, attempting to smother the flames, one rises, a human torch, stumbles toward the river. A larger blue streak collides with his chest. Gore rains down on the men near him.

Men seek some angle, some way to return fire, the enemy is well protected on the other side of the river, and the sporadic lasgun fire has little effect. Instead, it draws enemy fire, moths to flame. One by one the shooters are struck by the enemy fire. A man huddles against a rock nearby. Ingree can see the Vox caster strapped to his back. The man turns, waves at Ingree. A sickening sizzle, the man's face freeze, bewilderment and surprise etched on his features. The Guardsman falls forward, burned flesh raw and red under his helmet.

Ingree crawls toward the corpse of the Vox operator, the ever present blue fire streaking past his head, splattering against the rock. The buzzing splits his head. A new hum breaks the air. The roar of engines, close overhead, fire streaks down from the sky, the bluffs across the river explode, covered in a cloud of smoke. The Vultures have arrived. The enemy fire begins to slow, the enemy being torn to shreds by the power of the Imperial gunships.

Ingree lies next to the dead Guardsman, hands scrabbling for the Vox caster, turning the corpse over. His face still shows his last expressions. Ingree's hand finds the microphone, brings it to his mouth. Another Vulture passes over head, firing missiles at some target, the dull _crump _of the explosion.

"This is Captain Ingree, Vultures having good effect." Ingree wanted to break free from the protocol, the precise, controlled, calm words. He fights down the impulse, but can't keep his voice from shaking.

"We are absorbing heavy casualties, and have been unable to reach the river, Requesting reinforcements." The words "absorbing heavy casualties" it felt like an affront to the men whole lay all over this field, these men whom had lost their lives.

The microphone crackles again, a reply;

"Captain," the voice is different, more authoritative, "I want you to state exactly what you see, and what needs to be done, you do that, and I'll make it happen."

Ingree was taken off guard, it seems some one important back there was taking interest. The microphone spits again.

"You still there son? I need you to talk to me." Ingree starts, looks around taking in the scene, mind working franticly.

"Yes, sir, uh, I'm still here." He spoke quickly

"Well that's good son, now what's happening, how many men do you have, where are the enemy, and how many are they?"

"They have us in a crossfire, across the river, that's in front of me, sir. They are on both sides too." Ingree felt a wave of relief, he was talking with someone that could end this, the protocol slipping from his mind.

"I had a full company, 245 men. I don't know how many are left. They are hitting us hard, too hard." Shots slapped all around Ingree, the enemy recovering from the Vulture strikes. "We don't have any cover, we can't even see them. I can't tell you how many of them there are sir, but it's more than enough."

"Ok son, the rest of the regiments on its way, artillery is lining up, just hold on." The microphone went died. Ingree stared at it for a long moment. Then he set it down, patted the dead Vox operator's shoulder. A high scream whistled over head, followed by an explosion, the artillery was coming down.

Ingree began to crawl away from the rock, and the dead Guardsman. More explosions sound, the enemy positions becoming obscured by huge clouds of smoke and debris. A sequence of whines, then pops, a ring of white smoke rises around the company. I told them we had no cover, so they gave us some, thought Ingree. Ingree rose to his feet, he could see the rest of his men now. The company had been badly mauled. Dozens of men lay sprawled on the grass, most of them would not leave this field. Ingree raised his voice:

"Lieutenants! Here, now! Sergeants, get your squads together, prepare for the attack!"

Men began to stand, reforming into squads, squads reforming into their platoons. The price was not as high as Ingree had feared, at least two hundred men were still on their feet. Three men came forward out of the mass of soldiers, Lieutenant's bars on all of their shoulders.

"Captain, as far as I can tell it looks like we lost a whole squad, just like that. And one of our mortars is wreaked too." That was Junior Lieutenant Savul Grent, commander of the 1st platoon. His was helmet slightly askew, dirt on his face, blood on his uniform.

Grent was an easy going kind of guy, he smiled a lot. He was on first name basis with everyone in his platoon, but now he seemed different. The blood of his men was on his uniform, the blood of the men he let become his friends.

Grent continued,

"Reben got hit, right next to me, good Emperor, it's a mess…" his voice petered off into silence. Reben Voch had been Grent's second in command, and his good friend. Ingree stretched out a hand, placed it on Grent's shoulder.

"I know it's a mess Lieutenant, but we've got to be ready, the rest of the regiment is coming up, and were going to push right on across the river, but we've got to be ready." Ingree put as much steel as he could muster into his voice, he had to be strong for his men.

"Everyone needs to be ready, all the platoons, make sure the men are all right, we've got to be ready when the regiment gets here, it won't be long, and see about cover too, I don't know how long the smoke will last, dismissed." Ingree waved off the Lieutenants, and sat down, realizing how thirsty he was. Ingree unhooked his canteen and took a long drink, then he got back to his feet.

"I need a Vox caster over here!" shouted Ingree. A Guardsman trotted out of the ranks, the familiar bulge of the Vox caster on his back.

"Guardsman Henry Smatch, reporting, sir!" The Guardsman was shorter than Ingree, with bright blond hair peeking out from under his helmet. Ingree could tell that he, like all the other men was shaken by the fight.

"Well then, Guardsman Smatch, from now on, you are assigned to my command squad, as its Vox operator, I want you to stick to me, no matter what, and… don't get shot." Ingree turned away from Smatch.

"Adjutant Rouso! I need you over here!" Ingree began to walk towards the throng of men assembling themselves.

"Rouso! Where are you?" Ingree almost tripped over a body, lying facedown in a shallow depression seemingly made to fit the corpse. Something about that back was familiar.

"Oh, no…" whispered Ingree as he bent down and rolled over his Aide-de-camp's body. Ingree sank down on his heels, hand resting on Rouso's chest.

"Ah, Rouso, why did you have to get yourself killed?" Ingree asked his departed comrade, staring at the burns on Rouso's chest, the wound that killed him. One things for sure, things wont be the same, thought Ingree as he turned away from Rouso's corpse, a single tear rolling down his grime streaked face.

The thunder of the artillery could be heard more easily now. The noise suppressing smoke was thinning. Ingree gestured to his men, get down, the shooting is going to start again. Ingree flattened himself against the ground, hopefully the rock in front of him would provide some cover.

The smoke was now drifting away, Ingree could see the river again. He waved Smatch over. Taking the microphone Ingree began to speak.

"This is Captain Ingree, when are those reinforcements getting here? The smoke is thinning out real quick."

The microphone squawked, the reply.

"Don't worry Captain," the same authoritative voice as before. "We'll be here soon." The microphone went dead. Only one thought was in Ingree's head now: We? Was that officer coming up here? Who was he? Ingree realized that the man had never introduced himself. Well, he thought, I'm going to find out.

The roar of engines from behind heralded the arrival of the rest of the regiment, mounted in Chimera Armored Personnel Carriers. Dozens of steel behemoths thundered past the cheering men of Ingree's company. One slowed to a stop, right next to Ingree. A hatched opened, and a man stepped out. Ingree knew at once that this was the officer he had been speaking to.

The officer approached. Ingree scrambled to his feet, snapped to attention and saluted. The officer returned the salute:

"As you were, Captain. It's good to meet you in person, I am Colonel Howe, your new commander." Howe smiled, he was taller than Ingree by about six inches, and somewhat larger built than the slim Captain.

"What happened to Colonel Vanst, sir?" asked Ingree, Colonel Vanst was the original commander of the 76th Infantry. He, like all the other officers of the regiment had never directed men in combat.

"I'm afraid that Revar Vanst is no longer serving the Emperor, something to do with the Commissariat, anyway, that's not important now. We need to focus on the matter at hand. Get your men into the Chimeras. We've got a river to cross."

Ingree saluted Colonel Howe again, then turned an called for his Lieutenants again. When all three Platoon commanders assembled Ingree spoke.

"Change of plans, Regiment sent some spare APCs for us, get your men on board as fast as you can, also we have a new commander, Colonel Howe, seems to be a good guy. Now hurry up! We've got a river to cross!" Grins broke across the faces of the Lieutenants, now they were getting out of this field.

_To be continued…_


End file.
